


Hello Nurse

by Fodforever



Series: Marta Helps Ransom Be Less Awful [2]
Category: Knives Out (2019)
Genre: (temporary), Angst, BAMF Marta Cabrera, Bathing/Washing, But not a murder, Car Accidents, Embarrassment, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Eventual Romance, Eventual Sex, F/M, Hurt Ransom, Hurt/Comfort, Physical Disability, Ransom Drysdale Being an Asshole, Romance, Slow Build, Wheelchairs
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-31
Updated: 2021-02-06
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:00:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 15,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26204578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fodforever/pseuds/Fodforever
Summary: Ransom crashes his car the night of Harlan's 85th birthday before it occurs to him to double-back and swap the medications.Harlan insists Marta be the one to care for Ransom while he convalesces.
Relationships: Marta Cabrera/Ransom Drysdale
Series: Marta Helps Ransom Be Less Awful [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1903030
Comments: 127
Kudos: 388





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story is the second rattling around in my mind about how Ransom maybe wouldn't he a horrible person given the right set of circumstances. In this story those circumstances are him getting horribly injured, and Marta taking care of him (and also calling him on all his bullshit).

The night of Harlan’s 85th birthday party, Ransom has tunnel-vision as he peels out of the Thrombey property, down the winding drive and past the carved elephant statues. The old man actually did it. He’d been threatening to cut the family off for years… which meant nobody thought it would actually happen.

His grip on the steering wheel tightens as he speeds down the road, through the dense woods. He knows this drive like the back of his hand, moving on autopilot he remembers Harlan's words:

 _“Not a single red dime or one word of my work to a single one of them, you included!”_

_“You can’t be that crazy, you’re not just going to throw away your fortune.”_

_“No I’m giving it to Marta. All of it”_

Ransom is so numb, so wrapped up in the recent memory that he doesn’t react quickly enough. Not nearly quickly enough to avoid the huge male deer that jumps out in front of his BMW just minutes after he’s left the party. 

He can only think _Oh shit_ , before he loses consciousness, surround by the sound of breaking glass and screaming metal. 

* * *

Ransom loves his car.

He doesn’t talk about it much, but he really does. Ransom learned from a young age not to show his true feelings about anything he actually cared about. If he did, all he got was a reminder that his parents and other family members would just ruin it. Like how he joined the lacrosse team in high school and his mother badgered and bribed the coach until he was made team captain.

Ransom hated being captain; his teammates were bitter that he was basically handed the position as a sophomore and shunned him. All he wanted in the first place was to be the goal-keeper and keep to himself. He left the team after one season, and it wasn’t the first or the last thing he quit out of similar frustration.

No, showing his family anything just led to them butting in and ruining it. Or trying to take it from him when he didn’t do what they wanted. So for most of his life Ransom pretended he didn’t care about anything. Eventually he told himself he didn't care so many times that it felt like the truth. By the time he is thirty-three he doesn't care about much of anything at all.

But his 1972 BMW 3.0 CSi, he loves. 

He researched the hell out of his car. Poured over the specs, met with multiple sellers. He takes impeccable care of it, he even washes it himself (after that fucking chain car wash scratched the taillight).

Like everything else in his life, he didn’t earn the money he bought it with outright. After six and a half years he finally graduated (without honors) from Yale University. He never wanted to go in the first place, but Linda insisted, convinced between an Ivy League education and their family's growing wealth and reputation that Ransom would be set up for success. 

Nevermind that Ransom always hated school and always thought he'd rather do something with his hands.

No one in the family bothered to attend the graduation ceremony, and Ransom felt like a fool as he walked across the stage to a quiet smattering of applause from polite strangers. No one mentioned his graduation at all in fact, apart from a gruff “You finally did it, about time, about time…” from his grandfather the next time he saw him. 

Ransom’s parents had been out of the country at the time, their usual excuse for not showing up. Linda claimed it was an unavoidable business trip, but all her business trips were just vacations where she looked at one or two investment properties. She did send a check. There was no card, just a check in an envelope with so many zeros on it even Ransom’s eyes grew wide. He would have confused it for one of her regular room and board checks, but for the word “Graduation” written in the memo line.

Ransom looked at the check for a long time, tempted to rip it up. But he decided he’d spent six and a half years _earning_ this money, one way or the other, and he was going to buy something for himself. Something no one could take away.

So, for the last ten years he’s been driving the BMW, and whenever anyone questions why he isn’t driving something newer, or flashier, or more rich-boy-cliché, he just smirks. 

Ransom isn’t a responsible person. He isn’t particularly careful or reliable. But he’s never been pulled over, and he doesn’t drink and drive. Hell, he’s never even had a parking ticket. Because no one, _no one_ , is going to take the one thing he’s earned. The one thing that’s his. 

He loves his car, and he doesn’t love much else.

* * *

Ransom regains consciousness and wishes he hadn’t.

His whole body is on fire. He tries to move his arms, aware that he needs to get to his phone, he needs to call 911. But they don’t work. It’s like they aren’t connected to his brain. He focuses on moving his left arm, but instead of raising to his pocket it just jolts at his side. He almost passes out again, the pain is so intense. 

He knows his phone is just sitting there in his pocket, but he can’t get it, and the pain is getting worse. He feels like he has to throw up. Blackness is clawing at his vision but he refuses to die alone in the woods, in the mangled wreck that used to be his car. His eyes burn and he clears his throat.

“OK Google, call 9-1-1” he says, as loudly as he can.

His phone pings in his pocket, “Okay, calling 9-1-1…” the computerized voice responds.

Ransom loses consciousness again as the operator picks up.

* * *

Ransom wakes up in the hospital, alone.

The first thing he notices is that his left arm is pinned to his chest in a sling. He looks down at the rest of his body to take stock of the damage. For a moment he wonders frantically if he’s paralyzed, but he closes his eyes and realizes that everything hurts, his legs included.

In addition to his left arm in the sling, he can see he has at least two broken fingers on his right hand. His right leg is in a cast up to his thigh, his face is pulsing in pain, and his left side is on fire every time he breaths. He’s a mess.

A nurse comes in, only to walk right out before he can ask any questions. An eternity later a doctor comes in, looking at a clip board.

“Mr… " he looks at the clip board flipping through the pages, "... Drysdale, You have been in a car accident and suffered quite a few injuries.” He starts shining lights in Ransom’s eyes and asking him a bunch of questions. Ransom is getting more and more irritated, unable to get a word in. Finally, he just glares at the doctor and hisses: “I’m not saying fuck-all else until you tell me what is wrong with me, and when I can get out of here.”

The doctor flips another page on the clip board and reels off the damage, “Left shoulder dislocated, two broken fingers (pointer and middle on the right hand), sprained right wrist, broken right femur, broken nose, face laceration, bruised ribs and a concussion.”

Ransom feels cold dread grip his spine. “Face laceration? What – what’s wrong with my face?”

The doctor looks up at the clock on the wall. “A nurse can go over this with you in more detail, you should stay in the hospital for at least a few days for observation, maybe a week. Those fingers may need surgery.”

He walks out and Ransom wants to murder him. He literally wants to take a twisted piece of metal from the scrap-heap that is no doubt his once beautiful car and jam it into the doctor’s face. 

His head falls back onto the stiff hospital pillow. Even that short conversation has drained all his strength. He closes his eyes and tries not to think about his car, or his face, or the fact that he probably doesn’t have either one anymore. Fuck.

Ransom thought he’d lost everything when his grandfather cut him off just hours ago, but it turns out he had more to lose. He can only think the same three things over and over as he slips back out of consciousness.

Fucking Harlan.

Fucking deer. 

Fucking Brazilian nurse. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter to get me going! The rest should be longer :) Thanks to everyone who encouraged me to move forward on this. All the chapters are planned but I'm writing as I go. I'm aiming for a new chapter each week.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ransom's hospital stay.

The next time Ransom wakes up he isn’t alone. 

Harlan is sitting next to him in one of the two uncomfortable-looking chairs in the hospital room. His head is resting on a liver-spotted hand, and his eyes are closed. Ransom is careful not to give away that he’s awake. He hears the shuffle of feet to his right, and sees a pair of bright white tennis shoes on the other side of the crape-y blue privacy curtain. 

It takes him a moment to note that the pants above the shoes are jeans. Not a hospital worker then. The nurse. Ransom seethes. What the hell is she doing here? Anger wells up in him and he presses the button to call for his actual nurse. He wants someone to throw them out of the room. They don’t get to be here, to see him like this.

After a few minutes he sees a new pair of shoes join Marta’s, and there is some low talking before a round, middle-aged woman in Mickey Mouse scrubs pulls back the curtain.

“How are you feeling Mr. Drysdale, your pain meds aren’t due for another hour, but if you’re in significant pain I can see if we can move them up slightly.” She whispers conspiratorially in an attempt not to wake his grandfather.

Ransom knows she is trying to help. And fuck if he doesn’t really want more pain meds, but instead of saying that he grunts hoarsely, “Who let these people in here? I want them removed.”

Harlan startles awake at that, his head coming up off of his hand. Marta takes that as her cue to enter from the other side of the curtain to stand by Harlan. 

The nurse looks surprised, but recovers enough to say “They came to visit you as soon as visiting hours opened this morning, they’ve been here for about five hours.”

Ransom’s mouth feels dry and disgusting, but he clears his throat and attempts his best “I’m in charge” voice, “I don’t care how long they have been here, I don’t want visitors.” 

Harlan’s face drops in defeat and Ransom looks away. He refuses to feel guilty when he is the one that is in pain. 

Marta as a rule stays out of Thrombey family drama, but watching Harlan shuffle to his feet to leave like a kicked puppy is too much.

Harlan finally fell asleep just half an hour ago. Before that it was all Marta could do to get him to sit down. As soon as they were notified of the accident he asked Marta to drive him to the hospital. She convinced him to wait until the morning, as they likely would not be able to see him until then anyway. 

They’d been allowed to wait in his room when they arrived this morning, where Harlan paced and kept up a near-constant refrain: 

“Why did he have to drive that thing, it has almost no safety features… 

He’s lucky to be alive… 

I did this Marta. I never meant for him to be hurt… 

He’s a good driver, he probably didn’t react quickly enough because he was so upset… 

I have to take care of him now, he won’t be able to look after himself like this… 

They said there may be lasting effects from the concussion…”

Marta told Harlan it wasn’t his fault over and over, but he refused to listen. And now Ransom is basically implying it is his vault by throwing them out. Marta won’t let that happen. Harlan is her first priority as her employer and friend. She takes a good look at Ransom to size up how she can get him to let Harlan stay.

His eyes are glassy and he’s breathing through clenched teeth. She glances at his vitals, which are elevated. Marta puts a hand on Harlan’s shoulder.

“Harlan has been out of his mind with worry. He’s been working with the hospital all morning to get you the best private room, the best doctors.”

Ransom rolls his eyes and continues to look away. Marta knows first-hand that even the best of people can be irrational and aggressive when they have been hurt or had a traumatic accident like the one Ransom has been in. 

She takes a deep breath. Time to try a different tactic.

“Why don’t Harlan and I go get you some real food. You won’t want what they offer here, and you should be able to eat solids for your next meal.” She glances at the nurse on duty in silent apology for insulting the hospital food. “We’ll be back in a while once your pain meds have kicked in with something from whatever restaurant you’d like.” She uses a measured voice, like she would with any patient. 

Ransom shrugs and then winces, instantly regretting moving his shoulder. “Whatever” he says, though the appeal of having some comfort food brought to him instead of choking down hospital jell-o can’t be denied.

“Yes my boy, anything you want.” says Harlan, and Marta makes a mental note to tell Harlan that just because Ransom is hurt, he shouldn’t slide back into giving him everything he wants. She suspects it will fall on deaf ears however. 

Ransom looks at the ceiling as if coming up with a specific food order is a momentous feat. “I guess I’ll have the lobster bisque from _Buttermilk and Bourbon_ ” he says, then pauses closing his eyes. “And the blueberry bread pudding.” Marta can tell the nurse is about to interrupt that those rich and heavy foods aren’t a good idea.

Marta motions to her to let it go, thankful Ransom’s eyes are closed. She is on good terms with the nurse, Cathy. She’ll explain to her once they are out of Ransom’s ear-shot that she plans to bring Ransom broths and other suitable foods, and that he won’t end up eating much of the rich items he’s asked for. 

Marta knows patients. They think they want something, but the recommendations are recommended for a reason. Ransom will likely only eat a bite or two of the bisque before he’s ready to switch to broth or applesauce. Though she thinks she will have to stop at a high-end grocer to ensure he’ll actually eat the plain foods instead.

Her main concern is getting Harlan back home and keeping him on schedule with his medications and exercises. Ransom won’t be out of the hospital for several days, and Marta is realizing it will fall to her to make sure Harlan is able to visit Ransom, and Ransom is able to _accept_ Harlan’s visits. 

Marta looks at Ransom and he’s actually fallen asleep. He looks young like this, young and very banged up. The large bandage on his cheek hides his facial laceration. The nurse in her is dying to inspect the wound... Ransom no doubt will be upset if it scars. Marta sighs and does her best to be empathic. Ransom is a jerk, but nobody deserves this.

She motions to Harlan to leave, and walks him down to the waiting area at the end of the hall. 

Marta swings back by the nurses station to talk to Cindy. She explains her plan to manage Ransom’s high-maintenance attitude, and not load him up on bisque. Cindy laughs in commiseration and lets Marta know she will fill the other nurses in. Marta rubs her eyes and returns to Harlan to drive him home. 

She just needs to get through the next few days. Then Ransom will transition to at-home care and he will be someone else’s problem. 

* * *

Four days later Ransom is ready to be taken home. Harlan has paid for Ransom’s house to be temporarily adapted to be handi-capable, arranged for groceries to be delivered weekly, hired a nurse and transferred money into his account to cover his expenses for three months.

Marta doesn’t try to talk him out of giving him the money. It seems now Harlan has blinders on where Ransom is concerned and won’t hear a word against him. Marta is looking forward to getting back to their normal routine. Over the last few days she has taken Harlan to visit Ransom each day at lunch. Ransom hasn’t tried to throw them out again (Marta suspects due to the gourmet food they deliver), but he has been short and cold toward his grandfather. Marta has held back, but even one more day would have probably set her over the edge at this point. Ransom is the most entitled, immature, _brat_ she has ever met (well, except for some of the other members of his own family). 

Marta and Harlan are loaded into the rented medical transfer van and on their way to the hospital when it occurs to Marta to ask Harlan, “When will the nurse you’ve hired to care for Ransom arrive at his house?”

Harlan is quiet, and when she glances at him, he looks guilty.

“Harlan?”

“Well Marta, I’ve actually… hired a part-time nurse for myself. You know, to give me my medication and what not. That way… you’ll be able to nurse Ransom.”

Marta focuses on not crashing the van. “Harlan, what? Why? I’m _your_ nurse, not _Ransom's_! Hire someone else to take care of him!" Her face is hot with indignation. "I can’t believe you just assumed I would do this without discussing it with me. I may be your employee, but you can’t just loan me out like I’m some… some… lawn blower!”

Marta reflects that she meant to say leaf blower, or lawn mower, but she’s so upset her English is getting mixed up.

Harlan winces, “I’m sorry Marta, I suspected you might feel this way, so I just… put off telling you.”

“Put it off!? Harlan, we are _going to pick Ransom up right now!_ ” 

Marta has to pull over and put on her hazards, she is too worked up to drive. “Harlan, a nursing agency will take at least a couple of days to assign someone at this point… and you know that, don’t you?” She squints at him, furious. “So I’m trapped, I either take care of Ransom, or leave him to fend for himself and probably break his neck. You’re unbelievable.”

Harlan wrings his hands. “I know this was underhanded. I’m sorry… I just know he will get the best care with you. I’ve felt so guilty. And we both know I don’t require full-time care. I’ll be fine for a month or two with a part-time agency nurse.” 

Marta shakes her head, wrapping her mind around having to care for Ransom 24/7.

“This isn’t even the kind of care I am contracted to provide Harlan. I am at your home for light care 40 hours a week. For at least the first few weeks Ransom will need someone around-the-clock, he can’t use three of his four limbs!”

Harlan reaches into his pocket, “I know Marta, I thought of course that this level of care meant your rate would go up.” He silently hands her a check.

Marta opens it and lets out a small groan. “Harlan…”

“I don’t want to hear it Marta, I know for a fact that dealing with my grandson is worth at least that much.”

She wants to argue. But the fact is that there is nobody else to care for Ransom over the next couple of days, and… Harlan has just handed her a life-changing amount of money. She takes a deep breath. “Harlan, I will take care of Ransom for the next two days. If at the end of those two days I feel like I am the best person to manage his care, I will look after him for the next couple of months.”

Harlan smiles.

“Don’t think I don’t see what you are doing old man,” says Marta. “If he is too much, or I’m not able to lift him adequately, we need to find someone else. I’m calling the agency the minute I make the clinical call that I shouldn’t be his caretaker.”

Harlan nods, “Understood.” 

* * *

Ransom has spent five days in the hospital, and he has been visited every day by Harlan (with Marta trailing in his wake). His parents visited once on the third day for ten minutes. After complaining about the hospital, they launched into a lecture broken up by stints where they got distracted by their phones. Highlights of their commentary included: “Maybe now you’ll drive more carefully…” and “I’m not sure how you’re going to pay for all this…” 

When he is discharged on the morning of the sixth day, Marta is there with Harlan to load him into a hideous van. Ransom feels like he’s in hell, or the van is the transport to hell. There’s some elaborate metaphor that his brain is sluggishly trying to make, but he’s been getting the good stuff to deal with the pain and all the dots aren’t exactly connecting. What comes out of his mouth when Marta is rolling his wheelchair onto the platform to raise him into the hellmouth is:

“Ugly fucking van”

Marta rolls her eyes and straps him in.

Ransom feels helpless. Humiliated. His pain meds are loosening his tongue, or maybe he would have said it anyway.

“Guess you must really be loving this.” he sneers. He’s not sure if he’s talking to his grandfather or Marta.

Marta pops up from where she is securing the wheelchair with surprising speed and gets right in his face. 

“Don’t you _dare_ talk to him that way! He has paid for your care, updated your home, and paid _me_ to look after you for the next two months! Maybe instead of wallowing, think about your life and what you can do to change your attitude, because you’re lucky to be alive and have a grandfather that loves you!”

Harlan who is hovering outside the van watching this exchange lays a wrinkled hand on her shoulder. “Marta… he’s had quite a scare, it’s alright.”

Marta shrugs him off, her pent up frustration from the last five days finally boiling over. “It’s not alright. And if you think I’m the kind of nurse that will be coddling him, you hired the wrong person!” She gets out and slams the van door.

Ransom can’t help but agree that she is the wrong person. The wrong person to get his grandad’s money, and definitely the wrong person to be trapped with him 24/7 for the next two months.

But his head is fuzzy, and maybe he doesn’t want to see what it’s like to make the person who has his life in his hands any angrier… so he says nothing.

Harlan smiles as he sees Ransom back down as he climbs into the passenger seat of the van. He thinks to himself that he’s hired exactly the right person. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think at this point Harlan isn't match-making, but he does see that Marta is capable of managing Ransom and will be good for him :)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ransom goes home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note, brief mention of children suffering in a medical setting.

Ransom sits in the back of the hideous van and sulks. The tension is thick in the recycled air, and Ransom gets the sense it’s not just because of how he mouthed off as he was getting loaded up. Harlan and Marta aren’t talking to one another either. 

He spends the twenty-minute ride staring out the window. This past week has been the worst of Ransom’s life, and he has been thinking of returning home as the light at the end of the tunnel. But he is realizing that the end of the tunnel is just the start of another shitty tunnel.

He can’t do anything for himself. He can barely hold a toothbrush. It was bad enough in the hospital having a revolving door or nurses in cartoon scrubs changing his bed pan, cleaning him, and giving him his medications. But now he will be trapped with Harlan’s new heir, and his home won’t feel like home. Just a fancier hospital where Marta will take over his care. His cheeks heat as he imagines it. He never paid much attention to Marta. She was just another hired hand on a long list of help Harlan has had over the years. Ransom doesn’t know anything about her really. He thinks she wasn’t born in the US, but he’s not sure. He knows she’s worked for Harlan for a couple of years, and that he always tries to include her in family get togethers. He dimly remembers her throwing up during the Mafia game at last year’s Forth of July party, some issue with her getting sick when she lies. She always seemed like she was holding back.

That’s it. That’s all he knows. 

A stranger who is taking all his money is going to be living in his house for the next eight weeks. Shitty tunnel. 

Not to mention the hospital only sent him home with one more weeks worth of pain killers. Apparently two weeks post a deer attempting to fucking murder him, he’s expected to just subsist on extra strength Tylenol and weed. The hospital doesn’t know about his weed stash, but he’ll be damned if he gets by on just Tylenol!

Shit how even is he going to smoke, he’d have to have the nurse roll the joint. Fuck.

The van pulls to a stop and he sees his gleaming modern home, and feels nothing. 

* * *

Marta takes deep breaths as they pull up to Ransom’s ridiculous glass house. Ransom lives in a glass house. The irony.

She has Harlan stand back as she works the van’s electric ramp and unloads Ransom in his wheelchair. Harlan offered to assist, but Marta is going to need to maneuver Ransom around on her own for the next couple of days at least. She needs to be sure she can do everything herself, and Harlan’s help would likely be a hindrance. He is 85-years-old, if he lost his balance trying to support or move Ransom it could be disastrous.

Ransom huffs impatiently as she rolls him out of the van. Marta stewed during the entire drive about his comment while she was loading him. And about the fact that Harlan was putting her in this position at all. 

Marta knows Ransom is due for his next dose of pain killers, so she tries to give him some slack as she rolls him into the house and he says, “I still don’t understand why I have to be in a wheelchair, I can at least _try_ crutches.”

Marta’s grip on the back of his chair tightens, but she keeps her voice calm. 

“You are on a lot of pain meds right now, but you must understand that your injuries mean you are not in any condition to use crutches. With an arm and leg on opposite sides injured, plus broken fingers and sprained wrist on your other side... the chances of you falling and injuring yourself more make crutches impossible. Once your shoulder is healed and your fingers and wrist are better you’ll probably be able to transfer to crutches, but it will probably be a month or more.”

Marta moves to open the front door and catches the look on Ransom’s face. He looks totally dejected. 

She smiles as naturally as she can. “Don’t worry, I’ll teach you how to use the apparatus systems your grandfather has had installed so you can get in and out of bed and into your chair by yourself once you’ve had enough practice. And the electric wheelchair he got you is state-of-the-art, you can run it with your two good fingers or just your thumb.” Ransom doesn’t respond, but Marta figures he is probably taking in the changes to his home as she moves him past the entryway. 

Marta goes on, trying to fill the silence. “All the interior doors have been removed and the furniture has been cleared to make it easier for you to move around. Ramps have been installed anywhere there are lips or steps.”

“My bedroom is on the second floor…” Ransom says slowly. Marta turns to Harlan to explain, but he has moved off into the kitchen to check if the first grocery delivery arrived successfully.

Marta pauses awkwardly, she really thought Harlan would be the one to explain all this to him. “Yes, you’ll need to stay in the guest bedroom for now.” 

Ransom’s eyes narrow. “I don’t _have_ a guest bedroom.”

Marta looks toward the kitchen, desperate for Harlan to return. “I- Harlan had your exercise room converted.”

Ransom snorts but doesn’t say anything. Marta can imagine he is thinking he won’t need to be working out anytime soon, but that isn’t true. In a few weeks he may be ready for some light physical therapy for his shoulder at least.

She moves to show him into his new “bedroom” and can’t help the small sigh that escapes.

It turns out “converted” means all the exercise equipment has been moved to one side, and a low medical bed takes up most of the rest of the space. One of the walls of the room is entirely made up of mirrors, like they have at a gym. Marta thinks maybe a wall of mirrors isn’t the best thing for Ransom right now, but his home despite being over four-thousand square feet only has one downstairs bedroom. Luckily there is an attached bathroom that Harlan also had converted. Ransom will need help for a while to use it, but once his shoulder is more healed and can bear some weight, he’ll be able to use it on his own.

Ransom is staring at the mirror wall unfocused. “I had them installed so I could be aware of my form… never liked exercising at gyms…” Marta watches him as he eyes himself in the mirror, wane and hunched in the wheelchair. He looks away, close to tears. 

Marta pretends not to notice, quickly wheeling him out of the room and away from the mirrors. 

“I’ll be staying in the upstairs room for now in case you need help over-night. There’s a call button on the bed just like in the hospital. Once you are better at using the chair I’ll be here 8 am to 8 pm each day.”

She can see Ransom mentally adding up the hours. “Jesus, my grandfather must be paying you a shit-ton.”

Marta rolls her eyes, and thinks to herself that it’s Alice’s college covered. She just needs to get through the next two months. Her stony silence seems to egg him on.

“Well I’d give you a tour of the rest of the place, but it seems like you know more about my own home than I do. Maybe you can tell me if I still even own the place. Harlan probably gave you the house as payment for wiping my ass.” He can’t keep the bitterness out of his voice. His home is his sanctum. This is his worst nightmare… well, before last week his worst nightmare was getting cut off. Apparently, there are levels of “worst.” 

Without really meaning to he says out loud “I didn’t think it could get worse.”

Marta’s eyes narrow. She’s about at her limit. It’s the tone more than anything that gets her. This attitude that being cared for hand and foot in the comfort of a multi-million dollar home is like the seventh circle of hell. Marta has seen things that haunt her. She has seen families turn down vital, life-saving treatment because they can’t afford it. She’s seen child burn victims who face every day with a smile, despite the fact that _smiling hurts_. And this, this asshole can’t pull it together for eight weeks… can’t find it in himself to treat her even neutrally. 

She knows that the dynamic they set over the first few days will last through her entire time here if she chooses to stay. Marta bends down, gripping Ransom’s chair on either arm rest and bends so they are eye-to-eye.

“Let’s get something straight. I am not your maid. I am not your housekeeper. I am a registered nurse, and you will treat me with respect.”

Ransom balks. No one has ever talked to him like this. Maybe Harlan when he was really worked up, but Ransom was always able to pick up and leave whenever they butted heads. 

He straightens in his chair, trying to get some kind of physical leverage on her, even though that’s impossible. “Oh, I’m sorry, am I not _groveling_ enough? Excuse me Marta, but my life is totally fucked, I think I get a day or two to process.” 

Marta’s frustration is building, but she eases her grip on his chair. He’s late for his meds, she needs to put his needs first, no matter how infuriating he is.

“You do get time, Ransom. But you do not get to treat me poorly. I won’t remind you again.” That’s a lie she thinks, as her stomach churns. She has no doubt she will need to remind Ransom to treat her decently many times before this is over…

She just stands there, arms folded in front of her. She will wait all night for a response if she has to. 

“Yeah, fine.” he says, averting his gaze. He can’t look in the mirror, can’t look at Marta. 

Marta checks her watch. That was easier than she thought... he must be worn out.

“Alright, good. I _am_ here to help you, and make sure you are able to become self-sufficient. I know it seems like a lot right now, but with some hard work, in a couple of months you’ll be back on your feet.” 

Ransom deflates. His body is aching, and he just wants to sleep. “Can I sleep now?” He means it to be petulant, to show Marta that he isn’t backing down, but it just comes out tired.

Marta helps him into bed, and goes to get his evening meds. She carefully places them in his palm, his two broken fingers and sprained wrist make it awkward for him to toss the pills into his mouth himself, but Marta is determined to let him do as much himself as he can. Getting him into bed wasn’t as hard and it could have been. The bed is at the same level as the wheelchair, and has a transfer arm allows Ransom to sort of lean/ease into the bed with only some light guidance from Marta.

Harlan wanders in to say goodnight before a car and driver arrive to take him home.

She turns to Ransom before following Harlan out to make sure he gets loaded up alright. “I’ll be back to check in in a couple of hours to see if you need to use the restroom and do your nighttime routine. Press the call button if you need anything.” 

Ransom just nods, turning his head away from her, and immediately closes his eyes so he isn’t looking at the mirrors.

Marta says goodbye to Harlan and goes upstairs to Ransom’s bedroom. The other bedroom upstairs is an office that Ransom doesn’t appear to use. Overall the house is too modern to Marta, too clean. It doesn’t looked lived it. Though she sees aesthetically how it might appeal to some people. Ransom’s bedroom seems warmer than the rest of the house. There’s a painting opposite the bed that she looks at for a while. It’s not anything she would have pictured Ransom choosing. It’s a field of wheat, with black birds flying all over it. Nothing is sharp, it’s… blurry. Marta doesn’t know enough about art to know what that is called.

Finally, she looks away and settles in the bed. It feels intrusive to be in Ransom’s bed. She thinks of him alone downstairs, and her chest feels tight despite their earlier confrontation. Tomorrow she will have Harlan sit with Ransom for an hour as she runs home to get some clothes and books. Today was exhausting. But Marta knows it wasn't bad enough for her to reject Harlan's offer. 

Before she falls asleep she she downloads a Go app onto her phone. She’ll show Harlan how to get it onto his phone tomorrow so they can still play.

This is going to be a long couple of months.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marta and Ransom make progress, and then they don't... It's complicated.

Marta wakes up at six a.m. to the buzzing of Ransom’s call button. She hurries out of bed pulling on her jeans from yesterday along with her tennis shoes. Her heartrate ticks up as she moves down the stairs, hoping nothing is seriously wrong.

With a light knock on the doorframe she announces herself in Ransom’s make-shift bedroom.

“Good morning, I heard you pressed the call button.” She says as she enters the room.

“Yeah, I have to take a leak.” Ransom says, not making eye contact. 

Marta grits her teeth, the concern she had drains away, replaced by irritation. “A hello or good morning wouldn’t kill you, you know…” she says, but also moves to get the bed pan from its storage place under the bed. Ransom doesn’t respond, he just looks stubbornly at his own lap.

She stands and asks, “How urgent is it? We can use the bed pan, or we can do your first transfer onto the toilet. Since you aren’t used to it that may take several minutes so we can wait for next time if you want.”

Ransom is flushed bright red now, his voice low, “I held it as long as I could. I should probably just go now.”

Marta wonders if he held off calling her in order to allow her to sleep, or if it was because he was ashamed at the idea that he needed her help to use the bathroom.

“Okay, here we go, just like in the hospital.” She puts on gloves and efficiently helps him, allowing him to do as much as he’s able (which isn’t much more than to nudge his penis in the general direction of the bed pan with his two good fingers).

Ransom lets out a relieved noise as he goes, and Marta does some mental math. She waits for him to finish, then says, “It isn’t good for you to hold your urine for hours on end. Call me next time when you first notice you have to go.”

He just huffs and looks away in response. Marta disposes of the urine in the toilet, cleans the pan and comes back out to find Ransom has closed his eyes.

“Do you want to sleep some more, or do you want to get in the chair and go out to the dining room for breakfast?” Offer only two options. It’s a classic technique that Ransom seems too tired to fight.

“I could eat.” he says, before asking “Why do I need to get into the chair? In the hospital I ate in bed.”

Marta raises an eyebrow at him. “Well this isn’t the hospital. You’re home now, and being bed-bound in this fun-house room isn’t going to do you any favors.” She waves her hand at the mirrors and the tight, cramped space filled with exercise equipment. “Each day you’re going to have a routine, which will include meals and activities. It will help the time go faster and it will help you gradually gain your independence.” 

Marta helps transfer him into the wheelchair with minimal discussion. Even though Ransom has a broken leg, a healing dislocated shoulder, a sprained wrist and broken fingers he’s still a young man in his prime with impressive muscle mass. Marta is used to helping older people who truly rely on her strength. Ransom seems determined to put as little of his weight on her as possible, and actually makes the transfer reasonably well under his own power by using his core and his one good leg. 

She warns him, “You’re making the transfer from the bed well, but let’s practice for at least a few more days before you try it alone. Even though your arm won’t be in the sling much longer it is very weak and will take another week at least before you treat it as “normal.” And even then you’ll need to be careful.”

Ransom doesn’t respond, he is busy fiddling with the controls on his chair.

Marta watches him zoom swiftly out of the room without a word and silently asks the powers that be for strength. 

The morning passes easily enough. Marta helps Ransom make his own breakfast. After that they go into the living room where Ransom looks at his phone and Marta watches a nature documentary. Harlan comes to visit for an hour while Marta runs home to get some personal items, clothes and books. Once they are alone again the only time they speak is for Marta to give Ransom his pills.

She reads and then unpacks while Ransom takes a nap. Lunch is a replica of breakfast, and Marta is beginning to think helping Ransom won’t be as terrible as she originally thought, if bit boring.

After lunch she removes his left arm from the sling. His dislocated shoulder will take weeks to heal, but with his arm free he will be able to do more for himself. While he doesn’t technically need the arm in the sling, Marta thinks keeping it on was a good reminder for him not to strain it. Young men in particular tend to re-injure themselves, convinced they are back at 100% well before they actually are.

“Just because your arm is out of the sling doesn’t mean it’s back to normal.” she reminds him. Ransom just makes a noise of acknowledgment and puts in ear buds and returns to his phone. Marta can't see what he's watching and doesn't try. He has little enough privacy as it is.

In the afternoon Ransom tells her gruffly that he needs to use the restroom. Marta follows him to the en-suite in his room and shows him how he can used the transfer system to use the toilet with only minimal help. She has him practice once after he has already used the toilet just to get the hang of it. He does okay, but he’s winded and flushed by the time he is back in the chair. 

Marta isn’t sure if it’s embarrassment or fatigue, so she tries to address both. “Your body is using all its energy to heal, it will get easier.” she says. “How about this week I come with you and help you, and then next week if you have it down I’ll just wait by the door in case you need help?”

“I won’t need help!” Ransom says, his tone harsh and dismissive.

Marta replies as calmly as she can, “You’ve been in a major accident; it would be very miraculous if you didn’t need any help, Ransom. It’s why I’m here.”

Ransom ignores her response and eyes the shower. “How am I supposed to shower?” The stall is a decent size but there is a six-inch step down. 

Marta eyes the shower warily. “We can try getting you in the shower, but it won’t be easy. Wrapping your hand and leg up in plastic will also be a strain on you right now. We may need to get by with sponge baths at least until your shoulder has healed more.”

“Fine, whatever, but I feel gross.” he says.

Marta takes in Ransom’s general state and agrees he could use a real shower, his hair is lank and sticking to his head in places. She doesn’t want to risk maneuvering him down the six-inch step yet though. She looks around the bathroom, formulating an idea. 

“I think if we remove the head rest and recline your wheelchair back I can wash your hair in the sink.” She says, thinking out loud. “We can do that each morning or night along with a sponge bath as part of your routine.”

“Fine.” he says, exiting the bathroom and making his way to the kitchen. Marta watches silently as he slowly maneuvers the chair to the fridge. He manages to get it open, though the strain on his weak shoulder is obvious. He’s finally got the chair where he wants it, propping the door open, and lets out an exasperated noise.

Marta moves behind him to see most of the food has been loaded onto the top two shelves where he can’t reach. 

Of course Harlan wouldn’t have thought to leave any special instructions for the grocery delivery service.

Marta leans over him and begins transferring the items down to the lower shelves. She keeps the gallon of milk and heavier items up high, but everything else gets transferred to the lower shelf or the lower part of the door.

When she’s done Ransom grabs what he needs to make a sandwich and moves over to where the bread is on the counter. Marta gets him a plate and moves a stack of them down to the counter so he can use them more easily. Marta can’t read him at all, mainly because he hardly speaks to her. He seems less full of vitriol than he was yesterday at least. 

When Ransom is done making two sandwiches for himself, he turns to Marta and looks her in the eye for the first time all day. “Do you want me to leave the sandwich stuff out for you?” he asks. 

Marta was going to make one of the healthy frozen meals the delivery service provided, but thinks this may be Ransom’s screwed up version of an olive branch.

“Yes, thank you.” She says, and then thinks to ask “Do you want iced tea or milk? The containers are probably too heavy for you to lift.”

Ransom balances his plate on his lap and moves over to the table. “Tea is good.” he says. And even though there isn’t a “please” or “thank you” to be found, his tone sounds grateful. Progress. 

Marta changes the dressings on his fingers, gives him his meds and they return to their solitary activities until it gets to be bedtime. Marta doesn’t call it that, because she gets the sense Ransom hates anything that makes him feel like a child. “Do you want me to wash your hair before you go to sleep or in the morning?” she asks once he has yawned twice in thirty minutes.

“Now is good.” Ransom says. 

They enter the bathroom and Marta watches silently as Ransom brushes his teeth awkwardly with his left hand. She runs the water until all traces of toothpaste are gone from the sink.

“I’ll line you up,” she says, careful not to grab his chair until he agrees. “You’re getting to be a pretty good driver but backing up to where you need to rest your head will be hard.” She means it as a placation, a way to make it easy for him to accept her help. But at the words “pretty good driver” Ransom’s face darkens and she can tell it was the wrong thing to say. 

“I’m fine” he says, glaring at the ground and refusing to look at her. All their good will from earlier seems gone as he maneuvers for almost five minutes trying to line himself up with the sink.

Finally when he almost has it, she decides to try one more peace offering. “I bet your shampoo and the soaps you like best are in your shower upstairs. I’ll go get them.”

Marta decides to take a note out of Ransom’s book and leaves without waiting for his response. She climbs the stairs two at a time and takes careful stock of the options in the shower in the master bath. Ransom seriously must subscribe to some kind of fancy soap club because there are way too many bottles. At home even between herself, her mom and Alice she has never seen so many products. 

A smile creeps onto her face. She shouldn’t snoop, it’s not her place. But some of the labels are hilarious. Each one has a sleek design, and details in tiny writing how the organic hemp or ultra-filtered grapeseed oil will provide a cleansing experience like no other. 

Maybe it was their near-pleasant afternoon, or the fact that she has discovered that Ransom hoards shower products, but she isn’t annoyed when she gets back downstairs. Marta enters the bathroom, arms full of a truly ridiculous amount of shampoos, conditioners, soaps, creams, and something called a hair mask. 

She rests the bottles on the bathroom counter, noting that Ransom’s head is leaning back perfectly on the sink, like he’s at a spa awaiting his treatment. She almost laughs at the idea. 

Marta clears her throat, rolling up a hand towel and sliding it under his neck to make him more comfortable. “What preference do you have for your shampoo today sir? We have quite a selection!” she lets the warmth she feels bleed into her voice, pretending to be a salon worker. It’s the kind of thing she would do with Alice when she is feeling silly.

Ransom’s mouth twitches, but his eyes remain closed. “Do you have the Bvlgari shampoo and the Kevis 8 conditioner?” his voice is hopeful, and Marta crosses her fingers that she grabbed those two out of the many bottles.

She did, and she sets them on the edge of the sink as she turns on the water. “You’re in luck, we have those in stock.” She says, continuing her play-acting. She feels foolish for making herself vulnerable like this, but Ransom is laid out, face and neck exposed under her and she just feels like if it were her she would want someone to joke around, make her feel better. 

Ransom presses his lips together, uncertain, eyes still closed. Marta is about to begin wetting his hair with a plastic cup she brought from the kitchen when he responds, “I’ve... heard the service here is the best in the industry.” 

Marta can’t help an undignified snort that escapes, too surprised he is playing along to contain herself. She quickly tests the water to make sure it’s warm before filling the cup. “Yes, our reviews are stellar,” she continues, carefully pouring water over the crown of Ransom’s head and running her fingers through his hair to work in the moisture. “We stock only the top one-thousand hair products in existence…”

Ransom doesn’t laugh, but he does breathe quickly out of his nose, expelling a puff of air. His cheeks turn rosy and he smiles a small smile. He still hasn’t opened his eyes, but Marta doesn’t feel like he’s avoiding her. More like he’s just, comfortable.

“There aren’t _that_ many…” he mumbles. 

Marta wants to offer to count them to prove just how ridiculous Ransom’s hair-care habit is, but any response she would have made is silenced when Ransom lets out a tiny moan as she begins to rub the shampoo into his hair.

Her fingers still at the noise. She knows it’s perfectly natural, after such a stressful time it must feel amazing to relax and have his head massaged… Marta feels her own cheeks heat and she continues to apply gentle pressure, spreading the expensive shampoo through Ransom’s hair. She scratches at his scalp a little, mirroring how she washes her own hair. Too late she’s realized she should be wearing gloves. There isn’t a clinical need for them, but it would help create a professional distance.

Ransom is silent as she finishes shampooing his hair and rinses the white foam away. Next she works the conditioner in. He doesn’t moan again, but has started breathing deeply, like he’s focusing on nothing but taking deep breaths in and out. 

Marta feels like she is moving in slow motion. The warm water and repetitive motions lulling her into a calm reverie. 

Once all the conditioner is washed away she knows there is no reason to linger... But it's been nice, enjoying a quiet calm moment together. She towels his hair dry, and helps him sit up, attaching the headrest once again.

“Alright, now we can do your sponge bath and you’ll be a new man!” she says, pulling out all the soaps and body washes from the mountain of bottles on the counter. “Normally we would use the body wipes, but I think I can use a small tub and cloth to use one of your usual soaps if you want?” Marta is so busy looking through the various options she doesn’t pay attention to Ransom’s reaction to the suggestion.

“Whatever is fine.” he says curtly, moving his left hand to the trackpad and leaving the bathroom before Marta can respond.

Marta watches the back of his head as he moves into the bedroom and out of sight. She's not sure what’s gone wrong to make Ransom shut down again, so she grabs a random bottle, fills the small tub and follows him. There is a tight feeling in her throat that she ignores.

Suddenly if feels like they haven’t made any progress at all.

* * *

Ransom’s first day in Marta’s care is… actually pretty okay. She leaves him alone as much as possible, and only helps him when he absolutely needs it. But it doesn’t feel like she’s neglecting his care, more like she gets that he doesn’t want to feel like an invalid. 

Harlan visits for a couple of hours in the morning, and Marta spends about half an hour showing him how to play Go with her on his phone. From what Ransom can tell from listening in, it’s like a version of “Words with Friends” but with Go. He almost asks what the app is so he can download it too, but something stops him. 

Ransom resents the easy way Marta and Harlan have about them. He's Harlan's family, but the way he looks at Marta... It doesn't make sense. Harlan is far from an old softie. He's been hard-to-please Ransom's entire life. But he acts like Marta hung the moon and stars. And she's nothing special, he thinks... But as the day wares on it's harder and harder to hold on to his hate.

But by the time Marta is wetting his hair in the sink he has to admit she’s a good nurse.

She must have done about fifty little things for him today to make things better and easier. Things that definitetly aren’t in her job description, like how she angled his bed away from the mirrors, or attached a make-shift strap to the refrigerator handle so it’s easier for him to pull open. And even though he’s been a dick to her this whole time she is still trying to joke around with him and cheer him up. 

Just when he’s feeling totally and truly relaxed for the first time since the accident, a small moan escapes him as Marta washes his hair. His heart stops, and then starts pounding. There’s been plenty to feel embarrassed about over the last 48 hours, but this is the first time Ransom wants to sink into the floor and disappear.

It just feels so good. Not only her fingers in his hair, but Marta is leaning over him. He can feel her warmth. It’s like he forgot what it felt like to feel close to another person. He hasn’t been with anyone in months. Before the crash he was going through a bit of a dry spell, tired of hook up apps and random encounters at bars. It hits him all at once, his body waking up and remembering that there are feelings besides pain and fatigue. There’s heat and pleasure and…

Fuck. Ransom refuses to get hard from getting his hair washed. 

He sets his mind on nothing and breaths deep. He just needs to get through this. 

Ransom is doing pretty well, until Marta dries his hair and reminds him he still has a sponge bath to get through. There’s no way he can get through Marta rubbing a damp towel all over his naked body without getting aroused. He storms out of the bathroom, pissed at the situation. Pissed at his own body.

He maneuvers the chair up to the bed and starts getting in on his own.

“Wait let me help…” says Marta, still a few steps away, arms full of Ransom’s bath supplies. She sets them down and ends up getting to the bed just as Ransom is swinging his legs up.  
  
Marta sighs. “Ransom, you need to let me-“

“It’s fine. In fact, if you just bring me the wipes I can take care of cleaning up myself.” She doesn’t respond, and he forces himself to look her in the eye. She’s looking at him like she’s trying to solve a puzzle. 

“Alright…” Marta says slowly. She gets the wipes, which really just look like really big baby-wipes, and sets them on the small table next to the bed. Then she drags the trash can over as well. 

“Use the call button if you need it; don’t strain your shoulder trying to reach with the wipes.” Ransom just nods and Marta turns to leave. She pauses at the door, “I’ll be back in thirty minutes to help you change and do a bathroom run if you need it.”

Ransom waits for her to leave and takes a wipe out of the container, wincing at the smell and thinking wistfully about how he could be getting washed with his expensive French soaps instead.

Marta would slowly rub the damp, sweet-smelling cloth up and down his chest, trailing it down his abs. Then she would slip his basketball shorts down and graze his-

He shakes himself, no, the wipes are better. They are safer. 

He is able to get mostly clean where it counts, armpits, ass… he focuses on the cool feeling of the wipe on his cock and not on Marta. Not on her full lips, or her round ass. Or how she felt leaning over his body, just inches away. It would have been so easy to reach up… 

Icey dread interrupts Ransom in the middle of his fantasy.

He would reach up and _what_? He barely has one useful arm. He hasn’t even had the balls to look at his fucking face. He knows the cut there is at least a few inches long. Marta changed the bandage that morning. It’s probably disgusting.

He’s disgusting.

Ransom finishes wiping himself and lays back in the bed. Marta comes in and helps him change with practiced movements. They dont speak.

She pulls a new pair of boxer-briefs and basketball shorts up under the sheet, maintaining his modesty. Once he has a new shirt on he really does feel better. Finally close to clean after a week of half measures in the hospital. He can't wait to take a real shower.

But to do that he'll need to be fully naked in front of Marta. The thought excites him, and fills him with dread. Two weeks ago the idea of his father's nurse seeing him naked was laughable. She should be so lucky. Now he's a mess, and she... Fuck. Maybe he died in the crash and this is hell.

Marta comes back in and gets him a bottle of water and his pills. As she leaves the room she says “Goodnight,” but doesn’t wait for a response. She is used to Ransom’s habitual silence by now.

He waits until he hears her footsteps on the stairs.  
  
“Goodnight, Marta.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not a medical professional, so please let me know if anything seems off. I'm googling but who knows! For example I guess for a dislocated shoulder the sling can come off after a few days? Oh well, for the purpose of this story it's one week.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ransom gets clean, Marta takes charge.

Ransom finally gets a sponge bath in the evening a few days later. It’s either that or a real shower, and Marta doesn’t think he’s ready for that yet.

For the past few nights he's put her off, claiming he can use the wipes himself, but tonight she's had enough.

“It’s fine, I can just keep using the wipes,” he tries, edging away from Marta in the bed.

They moved past his mini freak-out from the other night, falling into a rhythm each day centered around meals and Ransom’s medications/dressing changes. Marta is polite, and Ransom is his version of polite (which in Marta’s opinion is not _actually_ polite, but he isn’t outright rude either). They don’t have any major conflicts, largely because they are back to communicating at a bare minimum. 

Marta sighs. “I’m not sure why you are so against the sponge bath, you had several in the hospital.”

Ransom huffs and eyes the small soapy tub in her hands. “I can do it myself. My left arm and right leg are pretty much normal!”

Marta squints at him. “Okay, so you can wipe down your feet then? Both of them? And your lower back? What about behind your knees? And you can get to all those places without straining your healing shoulder or bruised ribs?”

He knows she’s got him.

She sighs. “Look, some areas you just can’t reach with the wipes on your own. And that’s okay for a while, but eventually you need to be cleaned everywhere. It’s a matter of your health.” Marta puts the small tub down on the bedside table and puts on blue latex gloves.

Ransom falls back in the bed in defeat. 

He can do this. He just needs to focus on something else. His eyes cast around the room but there’s nothing but exercise equipment. Marta has her hair pulled back in a low ponytail. It’s practical, professional even. 

But suddenly all Ransom can look at is the curve of her neck. 

Ransom closes his eyes and tries to think of anything else. He runs through all his college classes, trying to remember each one, then each professor, each TA, their name, what grade they gave him. God he hated school. Every class was torture. None of it held his interest and he had to force himself to go, and even then he only made it to about fifty percent of the classes. It’s surprisingly difficult to remember any of it. It gets him through the first half of his bath. 

Marta washes his feet, exposed leg, and the area above his right leg’s cast with quick firm strokes of the soapy washcloth. She follows that immediately with a clean, slightly damp cloth. After that she dries each area with a dry cloth. 

Ransom feels like a dog. Or like, a piece of furniture. 

Marta skips over his cock and ass to start on his neck and shoulders. His head at least has felt clean since it’s been washed nightly is part of their routine. He tries not to flinch as she moves the cloth carefully over his face. The wound on his cheek gets disinfected each day, and he’s made cursory swipes at the rest of his face with the wet wipes, but he didn’t realize until she’s done how many nooks and crannies a face has.

The air hits his slightly damp skin as she pads it dry and it feels amazing. Ransom thinks maybe he can get through this without embarrassing himself after all.

But then his heartrate ticks up as she runs the cloths over his clavicle and upper chest. He can feel his nipples harden as the cool air connects with them after the wet washcloth moves down to his abs. He flexes a little instinctively. Ransom may not have the cut-from-stone six-pack he had a few weeks ago, but he hasn’t lost all muscle definition either. 

French. Who did he have for his stupid language credit? Fucking French. It was hard enough to concentrate when the classes were in English. He glances at Marta and wonders if he should have taken Spanish.

“Raise your left arm.” she says, soaping up the wet cloth in the tub. 

And why. Fucking why is it his armpit of all things that sets him off? Maybe it’s that Marta seems to spend longer there, gently supporting his raised arm as she scrubs carefully. By the time she has run the cloths over his underarm multiple times he’s half-hard.

Marta hasn’t noticed yet, he’s partially covered by the sheet. 

She does the other armpit and then says, “Lean forward, I’ll get your back and then finish up with the bathing suit area.”

Ransom can’t help but snort at “bathing suit area,” it’s probably the lamest euphemism for cock and ass he’s ever heard.

Marta’s mouth tugs into an unwilling smile. “It’s that or _posterior and gentiles_ … usually _bathing suit area_ makes people more comfortable.” The washcloths wipe up and down his back as she talks, efficient and firm. Ransom flushes, trying to will down his arousal. He reflects that he must be pretty far gone to still want someone who says things like “bathing suit area”… 

“Okay, lay on your side, I’m going to get a new cloth.”

This is it. Ransom rolls onto his side so that his back is facing Marta. He thinks of Dr. Wagner, his most hated college professor. His accent was impossible to understand, and he never gave Ransom more than a 60. He ended up re-taking the class entirely. He focuses on how school made him feel. Dumb. Ineffectual. He pretended to everyone that he didn’t care about his grades. That he skipped class because he has better things to do.

But the truth is, he tried.

He really tried, and half the time he still just couldn’t concentrate. His face heats and he focuses on the old burning anger he has for Dr. Wagner. For his parents for paying for his good grades as long as they did and making it that much harder. For ignoring him.

Ransom shakes himself. Dwelling on this shit is something he actively avoids for a reason – it makes him feel like, well, shit. He glances down and sees that at least his erection is waning.

The cool cloth touches his lower back and he jumps, gritting his teeth. It’s been too long to organically pick their conversation back up, but he needs the distraction.

“I’m pretty sure there’s nothing you can say that could make me comfortable with having my “bathing suit area” cleaned for me.”

Marta pauses, “I know it’s difficult. Maybe comfortable isn’t the word... Bearable? Is this something you can bear for the next couple of weeks until you’re fit to use the shower?”

Ransom doesn’t know what she'd do if he says “no,” but after a moment he finds himself quietly saying “Yeah.”

Marta briefly squeezes his shoulder, and then he feels the cloth drag from his lower-back down to the crack of his ass. It’s mortifying, but for a moment he can at least enjoy the fact that he’s escaped embarrassing himself because his partial erection is entirely gone as Marta firmly cleans him. 

She quickly finishes up and moves to turn him so he’s laying on his back once more. Ransom has to focus entirely on the gross mole that his English Literature professor had on her chin, but he makes it through the last of the sponge bath without anything… coming up.

“There, that wasn’t so bad was it?” Marta asks after she returns from putting away the small tub. Ransom doesn’t answer, but does his best to lift his weight with his good leg as she drags his lounge shorts over his legs and up over his ass. 

Marta gets his pills (just extra strength Tylenol now), and puts the antibiotic cream on his face laceration. 

“You know" she says, examining the wound, "I think this is healed up enough that we can start leaving the bandage off. Do you want to leave it off, or keep it covered for another day or two?” 

Ransom has noticed by now that Marta never asks yes or no questions. She always forces him to pick between two things. He wants to call her on it, but he’s too tired.

“Keep it covered” he says, and pulls the covers up over himself with his good arm. A silent signal that he wants to be left alone. The sponge bath did feel better than the wipes, but having to concentrate so hard has drained him.

Marta tapes a new bandage to his face and turns to leave. “Use the call button if you need anything.” she reminds him. “In a couple more days we can try just having me outside the door for your transfers.”

Ransom just grunts.

Marta leaves and she doesn’t say goodnight.

* * *

It’s stupid.

Ransom knows it’s stupid. He should just press the call button.

It’s 4 am and he has to piss. Like really has to. Like that time when he was seven, and his nanny had a family emergency, so his mother took him with her to Lord and Tailor. He pulled on her hand over and over. Begged her to find the bathroom for him. But Linda Drysdale wasn’t used to managing a child by herself and thought he was just looking for attention… And _really_ she explained afterward, Ransom should have _known_ better. He didn’t need help to find a bathroom, and she had been very clear that the day’s priority was finding the perfect travel outfit for her trip to the Maldives the following month...

Instead he’d peed his pants in the middle of the store and the nice employee who noticed managed to get him some dry clothes from the children’s department downstairs for the ride home while Linda wailed in the background that she didn’t even get what she was looking for. 

Ransom files the memory away to help him during his next sponge bath.

His finger is on the button to call Marta. But then he remembers her turning quickly to leave earlier. How she didn’t say goodnight for the first time since they’ve been back home.

Ransom feels… hurt. It’s so fucking stupid. He never says hello or good morning or goodnight to Marta. He purposely doesn’t say it. Because it’s meaningless, and doesn’t matter, and it’s just a stupid thing Marta does that he’s gotten used to.

But not hearing it gave him a heavy feeling in his chest, and now he doesn’t want to face her. Doesn’t want to call for help when she obviously doesn’t… 

He doesn’t press the button.

He’s fine. He can do it himself. He doesn’t need help.

The chair is right by the bed. He’s done this transfer dozens of times now. Ransom makes it into the chair, and then into the bathroom and onto the toilet without issue. He has to suppress a loud groan as his bladder empties. His sore shoulder is a little wobbly as he gets back in his chair, but he makes it. He’s realizing now how much it helps to have Marta there for these, especially to and from the toilet which is a different height than that chair.

Whatever, just one more onto the bed and then he can sleep in later than usual without the natural alarm clock of having to take a leak. 

He readies himself to slide from the chair onto the edge of the bed, but before he knows what has happened he is sliding off the bed into the ground. He manages to avoid the wheelchair but crashes hard to the ground on his left side, rolling onto his back.

“God damnit!” he yells, limbs akimbo, splayed out on his back like a turtle that has been flipped on its shell. Hot rage sweeps through his body, and he breaths heavily for several minutes trying to calm down.

Finally, he’s breathing normalizes, and he discovers a dull ache on his left side. His ribs feel just like they did a couple of days after the crash. Shit, he thinks to himself, they just finally stopped aching a day or so ago. 

He wants to scream. He was supposed to wait for Marta so she could be nearby to help with the transfers. His face burns with humiliation. Ransom tries to get some leverage to get up, but the cast on his leg and his weakened shoulder make it difficult. And he knows if he tries to push his body weight up with his still-healing shoulder and he falls again he’ll just hurt himself worse.

Ransom takes a deep breath and wonders if it’s worth sliding around on the floor to try to reach the call button on the railing on the other side of the bed. It’s probably about 4:30 am, he guesses. Should he yell some more in case Marta can hear him? Or just wait for her to come check on him?

While he’s trying to decide what to do, he ends up falling asleep. The last thought he has is,

At least he made it to the bathroom.

* * *

Marta comes in at 7:30 to check on him because he usually buzzes her around 7. She expects to find him alseep in his bed, and rushes into the room when she sees him on the ground with his eyes closed. She kneels down next to him, gently touching his un-injured shoulder.

“Ransom! Are you alright?!” 

She checks him over, touching his head, trying to assess if he is seriously hurt, startling him awake. 

“Ransom, what happened? Are you okay?” she asks. 

Having just woken up, Ransom isn’t prepared for how humiliating this is. He pictures telling her what happened… and her telling him she told him so in return. He should have waited. He still needs her help. Why didn’t he listen…

Ransom’s due for his tylenol, and his ribs ache, and the dull throb of his leg that is always there seems worse than usual. He tenses and his bruised ribs pulse with pain, almost as bad as just after the accident.

It’s too much, he snaps.

“I’m fucking fine!” he yells. “Maybe if you were here to do your job this wouldn’t have happened!”

He knows it’s unfair, he didn’t call her. All of his frustration boils over and he doesn’t care that this is entirely his fault. He just wants someone to feel as bad as he does.

Marta is totally silent as they work together to get him off the ground. It’s not easy, Ransom is large guy, but Marta is trained and eventually they get him up to sit on the edge of the bed.

Marta asks him a series of questions to make sure he is okay, and shines a light in his eyes even though he tells her he didn’t hit his head.

They move him so that he’s laying in bed once more.

“It looks like you’re okay,” she says, “but you may have re-injured your ribs.”

He doesn’t respond.

She gives him a long piercing look, then flicks him in the ear. Hard.

“Ow! What the _fuck_?” Ransom was avoiding looking her, but he’s so shocked he grabs his ear and meets her eye, trying to understand what the hell just happened. 

Marta crosses her arms, “If you act like a child, you’ll be treated like one. That’s a warning, the next one will be on the nose.” 

Ransom didn’t have the best childhood, but his parents definitely never _physically disciplined_ him. They were hardly ever even in the same room. If they _were_ in the same room and he acted up, they just called the nanny and he was taken somewhere else.

“Are you serious?! What do you even – and who _flicks_ a child?”

Marta raises an eyebrow, “My mother did it with us. One is on the ear, the next is the nose... You don’t want to get to three.”

Ransom is both shocked and horrified. “You know that’s not a thing right? Didn’t your mother ever hear of a “time out”? Or taking away your allowance?” Ransom actually never experienced these parenting techniques himself, but he had enough awareness to know they were often the kinds of punishments other kids got. 

Marta looks unimpressed. “We didn’t get an allowance. And honestly, I don’t ever remember actually getting flicked. Just her holding her hand up was enough.” She mimes her pointer finger poised on her thumb to flick again, like the world’s most threatening “okay” hand sign.

Ransom’s ear doesn’t even hurt anymore he realizes, it was mainly the shock of it.

Marta raises her brows, waiting.

“Okay, fuck, I’m sorry okay? I was just upset. I should have waited for you, I just... wanted to do it myself.”

Marta lowers her hand and nods. “I know it's difficult when you feel like you're ready, but now you've set back doing transfers on your own by another week."

Ransom nods, eyes downcast.

"But thank you for apologizing. I'm sorry also I flicked you.” Marta tilts her head, considering him.

“That said, _don’t yell at me like that again_.” She leers at him making the flick signal again. 

“Fuck, okay, I won’t.” says Ransom, leaning away from her hand and laughing a tad hysterically. What the fuck.

"Alright." says Marta, "You need to take it easy today so I'll go get your breakfast. Cereal and coffee, right?"

"Yes... Thanks." says Ransom, dazed and confused as he watches her leave the room.

* * *

Marta tries to calm down as she starts the coffee. She _flicked_ a patient. What was she thinking? Ransom could report her, and there would be no excuse she could offer. 

He just - he made her so angry it was either that or shake him, which would have hurt his shoulder.

Marta can't believe she did something so unprofessional. But coming in to see Ransom on the floor had scared her, and this entire situation has made her doubt herself as a nurse. Has she allowed her distain for Ransom to interfere with her work to the point that he didn't feel comfortable calling her? Every time she felt they were making progress in the last week and a half Ransom would suddenly pull back again. 

Marta fixes Ransom's tray and vows to redouble her efforts to get him to open up. She is a good nurse, she knows that. Whatever is going on with Ransom, she will get to the bottom of it. She can handle it. It seems like she really got through to him this time.

Things are going well the following week. They even work up to joking around a bit. Then it all goes to hell when Ransom finally gets his shower.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have not had a ton of time to write, so I figured it was better to post this and get something out there.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ransom finally gets his shower.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to those that are still interested in this fic! I'm going through a tough time right now (so many people are!), but I refuse to abandon this story... Though to be honest writing isn't coming as easy. I will continue to update as I am able. 
> 
> Apologies for any errors or typos, feel free to let me know if you see any and I'll correct.

Ransom is staring at his phone.

It’s not a new phenomenon. Pretty much since he regained consciousness he’s clung to his phone like a lifeline. It’s not that the voice assistant allowed him to call for help (though the doctors did say he was lucky he was able to reach them before he blacked out). And it’s not that with his limited mobility, access to the internet has been the one thing keeping him distracted, sane.

Today he can’t put his phone down because he’s finally taking the leap and is looking at his face. Looking at the damage from the accident.

Marta removed the bandage days ago and left it off. At first the feeling of cool air hitting the wound made him nauseated, but after a few minutes he could tell that over the last couple of weeks it developed a thick scab. He could probably touch if he really wanted to.

When Ransom turns on the reverse-angle camera on his phone the first thing he actually notices is his facial hair. He’s kept his face clean-shaven for as long as he can remember, but when confronted with his own image it’s not the thin red line on his cheek, but the mass of sandy-brown stubble that catches him by surprise. He runs a hand over it. Of course he knew it was there, he could feel it growing. But his mental energy has been so focused on his facial injury it’s like his brain couldn’t think of anything else.

The wound is somewhere between a cut and a scar. He’s not sure the technical terms, but it’s about two and a half inches long, and runs in a straight line from the top of his left cheekbone down into his new almost-beard. In fact, it only sticks out of the hair growing there by an inch or so. The various creams and salves Marta has been applying are doing their job. It’s not bright red like he’s been imagining. More a dark maroon, and thin enough that it almost looks drawn on with the tip of a marker.

Ransom’s breath leaves his body in a huff. His reflection isn’t quite the Quasimodo visage he’d been imagining.

Just as he spreads his fingers to zoom in, he’s startled by a knock on the door frame.

“Hello, sorry to startle you,” Marta says as she steps into the room. “It’s just getting late and you didn’t press the call button so I thought I’d better come check on you.”  _ In case you decided to try a transfer by yourself and fell again _ is left unsaid. 

Ransom can’t be bothered to be embarrassed. His face is still his face. He zooms back out and takes one more look, tracing a hand over the long stubble. It’s almost a beard.    
  
“You’re not thinking of shaving it are you?” Marta asks.

Ransom quickly dismisses the camera and throws his phone down onto the bed beside his leg. Okay maybe it’s a little embarrassing to be caught gawking at yourself. He rubs his hand over his right, scarless cheek, and down his neck.

“I didn’t realize how long it got. Should I avoid shaving it? Because of the… the cut?” he asks.

Marta busies herself with her nurse’s kit which rests on a small table on the opposite wall. “Oh no, I mean it would be tricky to shave around it at first, but you would get used to it. I just… umm.” She pauses, keeping her back to Ransom, suddenly embarrassed. She pulls two plastic bags and some elastic bands from her kit, shaking her head before looking Ransom in the eyes and blushing.

“I just…” Marta starts, then pauses. She doesn’t want to say what she’s thinking, but changing course now would feel like a lie… “think you look nice with a beard and you should keep it.” 

Ransom’s mouth parts slightly in surprise. Marta has been almost relentlessness professional and positive over the last two weeks, but this is the first time she has complimented him or made any reference to Ransom’s appearance. He can feel his face get hot, and hopes his new facial hair helps disguise his blush-on-a-dime complexion. 

Marta clears her throat. “Anyway, today is a big day! Even though you fell and that made your ribs tender again, I think you’ve shown a lot of progress and we can try a real shower if you’d like.” 

Ransom is in trouble. Immediately his brain moves from:

Marta likes his beard. 

To Marta wants to shower with him.

To soapy, sudsy naked Marta in his shower, holding him as he rubs his beard wantonly over her smooth, wet…

“Ransom?”

Shit. Right.

Marta is standing there waiting for an answer.

He manages to get out in a halfway normal voice, “Yeah, yeah a shower would be great. Let’s do it.” 

* * *

Marta smooths the thin clear poncho over her hips. She ordered it a week ago in preparation for Shower Day. Ransom’s shower is all smooth glass and slippery marble. The company Harlan hired to make the house accessible installed temporary handrails, a shower-seat and a no-slip mat, but even with those in place Marta wants to be within arm’s reach of Ransom for the first few times he showers. 

His full-leg cast means he’ll be spending the majority of the time sitting in the shower seat, but that will be awkward due to how high the cast goes up his leg, and getting in and out of a sitting position will be tricky. 

Marta fights off a blush as she places Ransom’s preferred shampoos and soaps within easy reach on the in-set self in the shower wall. What is she doing commenting on his beard? Her guard has lowered quite a bit over the last week. Each day Ransom has thawed a bit more day by day. He still spends a large part of the day looking at his phone or watching TV, but they’ve actually been getting along well and Marta has caught herself thinking of him as… well not strictly as a patient. A friend, of sorts. Ransom really is a lot like Harlan.

She’s shaken from her reverie by the sound of Ransom’s chair entering the bathroom.

He looks almost grim. Marta has tried her best to understand Ransom, but she is at a loss for why he would look like he’s marching to his death when for the past two weeks he’s mentioned needing a real shower almost every day. 

She finishes arranging a couple of wash cloths on the shower shelf and props the heavy glass door open.

“You ready?”

* * *

Ransom is distracted enough by his facial scar that he forgets to feel apprehensive about showering with Marta. Or, Marta showering him… it’s poised to be even more embarrassing and intimate than their sponge baths, which Ransom has only  _ just _ been able to deal with.

As with the sponge baths he is just in some shorts with elastic at the waist when he enters the bathroom in his chair. The idea of being fully naked is nerve-wracking. Not only is he pretty sure he’s lost muscle definition, but there really won’t be anywhere to hide under the bright lights of the bathroom.

“What the hell are you wearing?” he blurts when his eyes land on Marta. It’s… a plastic trash bag or something.

Marta rolls her eyes. “It’s a disposable poncho, to keep the water off of me.” Marta brushes her hands over the plastic to smooth it. “Come on, let’s go, you’ve been waiting for this moment for weeks, right?”

Marta gets him to stand on his good leg, activating the chair’s breaks and having him hold onto it for stability. She helps him slide the shorts down, and skillfully slides them off before covering his leg cast in plastic and tying it off at the top. Having her hands so close to his groin normally would threaten to get him hard, but at the moment Ransom can’t really get over the poncho. It looks like Marta is human dry-cleaning. That along with the awkward process of getting over to the shower door and down the step into the shower seat is enough that he forgets he’s naked for a moment.

Marta fiddles with the various dials and shower settings for a minute. Ransom smiles at the memory of the first morning Marta stayed over. She hadn’t been able to figure out how to work his “over-complicated shower controls” on her own when she tried to use the bathroom upstairs and he’d had to walk her through it. At the time he was still so pissed and in so much pain he didn’t realize how cute it was when she tucked her hair behind her ear, or how good-natured she was about almost burning herself with the too-hot water.

Ransom shakes himself. This train of thought isn’t going to do him any good... that said, Marta’s poncho is pretty ridiculous. Maybe he has nothing to worry about. How erotic can being washed by a human trash bag be?

Turns out pretty fucking erotic.

“There,” says Marta once he’s settled in the seat. “Now I’ll angle the water so it’s hitting your side so you stay warm, and we’ll get going!” She grabs a wash cloth and the French body soap and begins. 

It’s like the sponge bath turned up to eleven.

The washcloth is warm, and makes Ransom’s hair stand on end as Marta runs it up his cast-free leg. She’s crouched down between his legs, focused on getting soap over every inch of his leg. The fact that her face is less than ten inches away from his dick doesn’t seem to register with her.

Jesus, this isn’t going to work. It doesn’t matter that Marta is in a plastic poncho. She’s in the shower with him. He’s naked, and she’s rubbing him down with his favorite soap. Maybe he can pretend to have a cramp? No, she would probably offer to massage him. Fuck.

When she gets to his foot, Ransom can’t help but jump away. He’s not ticklish. He’s pretty sure he’s not ticklish. But when Marta runs the washcloth over the underside of his foot something goes off in his body and he can’t stop the reaction. Jerking away luckily doesn’t throw him off the shower seat, he just slides to the edge and ends up putting more pressure on the side of his ass with the cast.

“You may be extra sensitive.” says Marta, slowly drawing Ransom’s foot back into her hands. “Since you haven’t been walking around or having anything touch your feet for so long, it can make them feel like they are getting touched for the first time.” 

Ransom closes his eyes. He can feel his blood rushing alternately to his face and his cock. Touched for the first time. The fuck, how is Marta not seeing how fucked that is to say?

Marta stands and sets the washcloth on the small ledge before taking the detachable showerhead off its hook and fiddling with the controls until the water streams out of the attachment instead of the main showerheads.

“I still don’t understand why your showers are so complicated.” she says, oblivious to Ransom’s internal struggle. 

The warm water flows over Ransom’s leg washing the soap Marta has applied down the drain. It feels almost euphoric. With his eyes closed and Marta taking a break from touching him to rinse him down he can actually enjoy the sensation. Sponge baths can’t come close to this.

His reprieve is short-lived as Marta adds more soap to the cloth and begins washing his chest. She continues to speak, something about “how many shower heads does one person really need?”

Ransom tries to think of anything other than what is happening, but his mind is blank. There is just the heat of the shower, and the sweep of the cloth over his chest and abs over and over. The moment the cloth dips into the top of his public hair it’s over. 

He’s hard before he can even think. He freezes, unsure what to do. Ransom reflects that he probably should have prepared for this. Been ready with something to say, like “Sorry” or “Hey can I have a minute?” 

His body has been threatening to do this practically every time he’s been in close-contact with Marta. Why didn’t he prepare?

Marta pauses, and they both sit there frozen. 

Ransom can feel his entire body turning red, blood pulsing to the surface turning his pale skin scarlet. Shame and regret crash over him. His head pounds and he can tell he’s about to explode. Yell at Marta for something that isn’t her fault, again, but Ransom can’t stand this feeling. Helpless and embarrassed. 

“Get out.” he says. It’s low, controlled, but barely. 

“Ransom –“ Marta starts, but she doesn’t get far.

“OUT!” he yells, swinging his good arm wildly, knocking the soap bottle out of Marta’s hand.

Marta steps back hastily as the bottle clatters noisily on the slick marble.

“I – I can’t let you get out on your own. You’ll fall.” She picks up the bottle and sets it and the washcloth on the edge of the shower seat. “I’ll leave and come back in ten minutes. Don’t try to get up on your own.”

With that she’s gone. 

Ransom waits until her form disappears from sight through the now steamy glass walls of the shower to shift out of his tense, protective huddle. 

He takes a few moments to stare into space, in denial about exactly how horribly things have gone. Not only has he once again freaked out at Marta, but he snorts derisively as he looks down. In the aftermath of his embarrassment, he isn’t even hard anymore.

He picks up the washcloth and half-heartedly scrubs at his arm and neck. Marta will be back soon, and he doesn’t have any idea what the hell they are suppose to do now.

  
  



End file.
